Author's Note: Hello! Chapter nine is finally up and running! It sure is long haha, but I'm sure y'all don't mind much. Anyway, some context for this chapter, it is in a different perspective! This chapter is in Russia's POV. Don't worry, Prussia will be back for the next chapter. Enjoy!

Sunday, November 3rd, 1991 - 52 days until Christmas

Why do I do this to myself? If the outcome is the same every day, why do I keep doing it? Do I think that someday I'll have enough self-control to not drink so much? Or that my body will be able to handle it and I'll wake up all bright eyed and bushy tailed, headache free?

Why would I leave the curtains open?

I feel like my head is being ripped apart, stabbed multiple times, set on fire, then whatever remains is being blown away by a violent blizzard wind. At least I don't feel nauseous. Yet.

I roll over on to my side and slowly open my eyes, head throbbing harder as the light in my room attacks me. I would just stay in bed for another hour or so, but unfortunately I need to get up. Not just because I have obligations but also because I'm not sure how much longer my bladder can take laying here until it bursts.

Last night is a blur, obviously, but it would seem I wasn't thinking straight. When am I ever thinking straight?

I manage sitting up and opening my eyes again. The bathroom is like, six steps away from me, but even that seems impossible. Am I really about to weigh the pros and cons of getting up versus staying here and doing the inevitable? It's not like it'd be the first time. . .

I probably should stop drinking so much. . .

Eck, like this'll stop me. I'm alone in this house, the only person who would know is me, and I know it's happened before, so what's the harm of adding another accident to my list of shitty things that happen to me because of my drinking?

I don't want to though.

I could only imagine having to get up anyway to wash these sheets and clean the floor. . . How long do I plan on sitting in it?

I hate this line of thought, I'm embarrassing myself.

I'm weak. Sure, mentally, yeah yeah, that's a given. But also physically. I've been getting weaker and weaker with each passing day, and let's make this clear: moving a body that is over two meters tall (6'6) is hell. Especially when said body used to weigh one hundred and twenty-two kilograms (270lbs) and now weighs a measly eighty-four (187lbs). I can see bones I haven't seen since I was a preteen. Ribs, wrists, hips, ankles. . . Yikes.

I grip the side of the bed harder as a sharp pain stabs me in my abdomen. I don't really have much time. I have to make a decision.

I try not to think too much about what others would think of me in situations like this. If Ukraine was here, she would try to help me. Bless her heart, even after everything she'd insist on helping me. Belarus. . . Ugh, she'd probably think this was cute or something. She likes seeing weakness in me because that means she can 'nurse me back to health' and then I would 'love her with all my heart'. Lithuania would probably laugh. . . Honestly, they would all probably laugh. It is rather funny. The humor is not lost on me.

I use the bed to help me stand up, and I almost fall over. The gravity acting on me now makes this situation a million times worse and I'm tempted to just let go. But I don't want to.

Maybe I should try a little harder to retain some sort of dignity.

I was. . . I am a superpower damnit, I shouldn't be withering away like this! I should be stronger. . .

A few uneasy steps brings me to the open bathroom door.

To think, this race is the one I'm trying desperately not to lose. I seem to be good at losing races. Arms. Space. Now the fucking bathroom. Does anyone even actually believe that he got to the goddamn moon?

I grip the side of the bathroom counter as all my concentration must be used for the task at hand. I don't think I've ever been so desperate for something in my life. . .

Well. . .

That's not true. I want a lot of things. I desperately yearn for a lot of things. I can never seem to get them though, and if by some slim chance I do they're conditional. Sure, you can be the first nation in all of human history to reach space, but you also can't have food for most of your population and life sucks for everyone. Sure, you can be a superpower, the biggest empire this world has ever seen, but also everyone hates you and you are constantly alone no matter how full your house is. And sure, you can finally have a currency worth more than the American dollar, but you also have to die a horrible death that rips everything you've ever worked for apart right in front of you while everyone laughs and celebrates, and you are left struggling with the worlds fullest bladder and hardly functioning motor capabilities to get to a bathroom not even two steps away.

Oh, eat your heart out Shakespeare, my life is the ultimate comedic tragedy.

Is that my problem? Hubris?. . . I would think America and hubris before me and hubris anytime of the day. Maybe it is one of my many faults. . .

Would I have hubris if I accepted the fact that I'm deeply flawed and broken? I'm not that confident. . . Obviously. . . Not anymore at least. I had my strutting days, filled with imperial expansion, war, glory, and a beautiful French woman at my side. Let me say: going around the court of Versailles with France on your arm really does something to a man's ego. She made me feel very loved, and oh I loved her in return. Maybe a little too much. That really came back to bite me with Napoleone. . . My court knew French better than Russian. . . She didn't let me forget that fact.

I'm a little surprised at my success, really, I am. I thought I wasn't going to have a choice here. I quickly undo my belt and zipper and in a matter of seconds find the blissful relief I have waited too long for.

"Oh my god. . ."

Why does it feel this good? I swear I'll never drink again. . .

That's a lie. I'll probably drink again tonight honestly. . . Especially since I have a meeting with America at the end of the week. . . I wonder what he would think of me right now? If he saw me moaning over the bathroom in utter bliss because I drank myself to oblivion last night and woke up just in time to do this?. . . I'm not sure what he'd think. Laugh maybe? . . . Feel bad. . . He'd probably feel bad for me. He has so much pity for me it's disgusting and patronizing.

God this is a lot, how much did I drink? How am I even alive? What the fuck is my liver made out of? I should have exploded a long time ago.

I should really stop drinking. . .

But I'm not. Even a lack of proper alcohol won't stop me.

The Spirit of Geneva anyone? This cocktail of death includes White Lilac, Athlete's Foot Remedy, Zhiguli Beer and Alcohol Varnish. . . That's not half bad. . . what about the recipe for the Tear? Lavender Toilet Water, Verbena, Herbal Lotion, Nail Polish, Mouthwash, and Lemon soda.

How about the most impressive cocktail? The Bitches' Brew consists of Zhiguli Beer, Shampoo, Dandruff Treatment, Athlete's Foot Remedy, and Small bug Killer. That one is soaked in cigar tobacco for a while. . . Yum. That'll do it. . . Again I ask: What the fuck is my liver made out of?

Finally my whole body is empty and relaxed. I turn on the shower then find myself staring into the mirror.

Have my eyes ever held any light? What does happiness look like on me?

I've been happy before, but that was so long ago I hardly know the emotion anymore. How nice would it be to go back. I just want to go back for a little while so I can find peace and happiness again. Before the Soviet Union, before the Revolution, before Catherine, before Peter, before even Ivan for crying out loud. . . Before the death of the Byzantine Empire, before the Yoke. . . Before I met China. . . That point in time. When I was a boy. That's where I want to go.

November 4th, 1991

It's coming. I can feel it in my lungs as they tighten, my heart as it slows. How I struggle just to walk up the stairs, leaning against the banister, coughing out of breath. I can taste blood on my tongue as I open my bedroom door and stumble in. Anxiety bubbles in my chest as I rummage through my dresser drawers.

Where is it?

I look over the shelves, in the nightstand, check the dresser one more time as my chest throbs in pain. Finally, tucked away in a small box I find it. An old metal cross, colored bronze with time. I put it on and hold the small symbol in my hand.

Many decades ago I cast this away. Tore down the symbols, blew up the churches, banned it. Communism would be the new religion, the new order to follow and believe in. . . I was foolish to think it would work. Look at me now, clinging to this past thing that used to mean so much to me in more ways than one. My culture was helplessly bound around orthodoxy and honestly it probably still is. I know that I am. Maybe we will be still after all of this, we have to be.

I make my way over to the bed and lie down, right hand never ceasing its grip on the cross.

I'm not scared to die. I welcome it. Come for me, take me away from this life, I've lived long enough, I've done enough. To finally rest. Finally not be bothered or tormented, end this silly competition that has ruined me so.

I couldn't imagine a wretch like me having a happy ending, and I was foolish to think I could. That anything remotely good in my life would ever last or bring me some sort of peace. And love? What a joke, a horrible, horrible joke.

Prussia is hopeless, driven mad by what has happened to him here. How could I have ever thought that he could love me? How truly pathetic. He used to strike fear into the hearts of anyone he looked at. He used to stand so tall, used to be so sure of himself. I can remember that signature smirk, that smooth tongue that could get him out of any situation, his unbeatable combat, his ability to hunt anything down. I can even remember before the 1600s when he was a priest of the Catholic Church. He was kind then, pious, bright, trusting, hopelessly devoted to the Holy Roman Empire. It's hard to imagine that that same little kingdom was capable of what he did in the thirties and forties. True evil. And now he is just a husk of what he used to be. . .

Before him I had loved China, but she did not return my feelings. She thought of me as a little brother and nothing more. I guess I know now how Belarus feels. It hurt when China cut all contact with me. . . She still doesn't talk to me. . . Even now when I am dying. . . She has yet to say anything to me. We have been through so much together I thought I meant at least something to her. I guess not.

Before the revolution I had a small fling with Austria. I couldn't imagine that he loved me, and I didn't love him, but it was interesting. It was one of his famous marriage proposals, his attempt to tie the Russian monarchy with his. I accepted, feeling like I had made it. Finally, they considered me European, they considered me one of them. I had tried so hard since Peter the Great to be a part of the exclusive club of Europe, and like the damn curse of my life this proposal sowed the seeds to my downfall. The child that was born from the human union was weak, the mother hopelessly devoted to saving him. I could practically taste the Revolution.

France was before him. She was and still is something very special to me, even if it has been easy for her to forget our history. My time with her was surreal, fairytale-like, her arm wrapped around mine as we walked through Versailles. . . I still can't believe that happened to me. I remember England looking at us and rolling his eyes, calling me barbaric. She would defend me until he was blue in the face. She made me feel like someone worth loving. Unfortunately I hurt her. I betrayed her, switching sides in a war, and she couldn't forgive me for that. She ended our relationship and made me pay hefty reparations for what I did. England approached me after the war probably to gloat. But like his arrogant son, he felt pity for me and ended up trying to cheer me up. Two-faced snake.

And before her. . .

I loved all that I have mentioned above save Austria with all my heart, truly and hopelessly so, but one still remains the love of my life above all the rest.

Before France was the Byzantine Empire. He gave me the cross I am currently holding in my hand. He is the only person to love me unconditionally. He never stopped. He loved me until the end of his life. He gave me culture, religion, written language, and recognition. He saw a light in me that no one else could, brought out a good part of me. When he died I lost that light. . . Maybe, just maybe, if I die now I could see him again. That would be a happy ending. Off in some after-life, holding one another for eternity. That'll never happen, but I like to think that that is what is waiting for me on the other side.

November 5th, 1991

"Is this what we will always come home to?"

"He's just sleeping, Natasha, I don't think he's drunk this time."

"I saw the empty bottle on the counter Katyusha. I'm not clueless."

I open my eyes and sigh.

"That's been empty for a while." I say, startling both of them.

"Oh, Vanya!" Nataliya exclaims, rushing over to the bed and jumping in, holding me tight.

"Nataliya! Get off of me." I try. She just holds me tighter.

"I missed you so much! England is horrible! He's so pompous and self-righteous! He dared to criticize the Union!" She says, burying her face into my neck.

"Katya, get her." I say, tensing at her action.

"Nataliya, come on, leave him alone. If you want to help him, why don't you start some breakfast?"

Nataliya looks up from the bed.

"That is a good idea. Look at how thin you are Ivan, almost lanky." She gets up and makes her way down the stairs. I sit up and sigh.

"Thank you."

"She just cares for you, is all. You could be a little less cold." Katyusha comments while pulling out some clothes from my dresser.

"If I showed her any affection she would never leave me alone. It's best to be distant." I say while she hands me the clothes.

"Perhaps. Come on, I'll start the shower for you." She walks into the bathroom and I sigh.

Eventually I follow her in and she turns to look at me.

"You really are thin. Do you not eat when no one is here to cook for you?" She asks.

"I eat plenty."

"It is obvious that you do not. I'll only be here for a few hours, so one meal is all you get from me."

"Why are you doing this?" I ask.

"Doing what?"

"Ekaterina."

". . . Because it has always been my job to take care of you and Nataliya. Who else will? Who else will make sure that you are still alive and taken care of? I am bound to you whether I like it or not, so undress and take a shower. I'll be downstairs helping Nat with breakfast." She walks past me and exits the room. I sigh and lean on the wall.

[][][][][][][][][][][]

"You're wearing it again?" Katya asks as I walk into the kitchen.

"Wearing what?"

"The cross."

". . . I am." I answer.

"Does that mean you are thinking about him?" Nataliya pouts.

"Nat!" Katya scolds.

"What? I'm just asking a question! Obviously Vanya has that ancient empire on his mind, look at the blush on his face." Nataliya says while smirking at me.

"I am not blushing, and I am not thinking about the Byzantine Empire, I am simply returning to something I have abandoned." I say smoothly.

"Mhm, sure. I never knew what you saw in that Greek man."

"He was Roman, Natasha." Katya comments.

"Roman, Greek, whatever. They are all the same." Nat says in a huff.

I chuckle at this, causing Nataliya to smile.

"Speaking of old flames, I got a letter from China yesterday." Katyusha says to me.

"Really?" I say, trying to feign aloofness.

"Yes. She wants to meet with you but was unsure if you were angry with her. That's why she went through me."

"I am not upset with her."

"Good, because I told her to come over tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I ask a bit incredulously.

"Yes. Make your amends."

I sigh and sit down at the table.

November 6th, 1991

It's been a long time since we've talked. So long, in fact, we have done nothing but remain silent. Occasionally my living room will get to hear the sound of a teacup being picked up then put down. Some food being eaten. A rustling of fabric here. A sigh there.

"It's been long." She says, voice melodious and delicate like the fine china before us. I allow myself to look up at her. Her smooth white skin, glossy black hair, cute red lips. Those bright brown eyes look back at me. Unfortunately, I'm not much to look at these days. I wonder if she's comparing me to the last Russia she saw. That early 1960s me, who was strapping, youthful, and sharp.

"It has been. . . It means a lot to me that you were able to meet with me despite your busy schedule."

"Me too. I want to be able to put our disagreements in the past." She says before taking another small sip of the tea.

"Chun-yan. . ." She looks up at me, surprised by the use of her human name. There is a lot I want to say to her. I'm a bit lost for words. Her powerful look isn't helping me. ". . . I. . ."

"No," she interrupts, setting down her teacup, "it is I who should apologize. Ivan, I'm so sorry. I should have never left you alone like that, or shouted at you the way I did. I pushed away my truest ally, I see that now. I was so scared of the West, that when I saw you talking to them I thought you had betrayed me. And all this time, my greatest friend, we have not spoken because of my foolishness. Can you forgive the foolish errors of an old woman?"

"I never held any of that against you. Of course I forgive you." I say, immensely relieved. Rather than happy, or relieved, my forgiveness seems to make her sad. Her eyes begin to water as she stands up and rushes toward me, embracing me tightly.

"Please, Ivan I don't want to lose you. I've been alive for over four thousand years, my old brittle heart couldn't take the loss! No one else understands me like you do and. . . I've treated you so horribly for the past thirty years, and in the blink of an eye you forgive me. . . Truly how blind I have been. . ."

I wrap my arms around her as she snuggles closer to me.

"It'll be okay, I'm not going anywhere right now."

"I don't want you to leave. . . Not before me." She says softly.

"Well that's not fair." I say with a bit of laughter in my voice. She sniffs and looks up at me with those beautiful brown eyes.

"Then together."

"Together." I say while running a hand through her short hair. She smiles and buries her face into my neck.

Well of course she did that on purpose. And I don't mind. . . Not one bit.

"After all of this. . . Can we be friends again?" She asks.

"I don't know if there will be an after all of this." I admit softly.

"You survived the Yoke, you can survive some economic collapse."

"Some? Chun-yan my entire government is falling apart. That is a prerequisite for final death."

"Please. . . You're the only one who understands me, the only person I can connect to. . . I'd be alone."

I feel her hold me tighter and I resist the urge to sigh. Perhaps one person may actually miss me.

November 7th, 1991

I keep all of my chopped wood in a small shed ten minutes from where I live. The snow is deep and heavy, but I know these forests like the back of my hand, and can navigate myself to the little shed easily. As I approach, I notice the door to the shed is slightly open. I take out my knife and slowly close the distance, quietly stepping inside.

A man and a horse stand in the right corner of the shed. He turns around and smiles at me.

"Oh, hello. I'm sorry, is this your shed?" He asks in heavily accented Russian.

"Yes." I answer, tightening my grip on the knife.

"I don't mean to intrude, but my horse and I got separated from our caravan during the storm. I saw this little structure and took shelter. I'm terribly sorry for the intrusion."

I relax a bit and leave my knife in my pocket.

"So you're a merchant?" I ask, looking over him. He is dressed almost completely in fur, save for his heavy boots. He looks young, maybe twenty or so. His long black hair is braided and pulled forward, his skin is much darker than mine. He looks like he comes from the lands to the southeast.

"I am. We are headed to the markets in Vienna."

"The Holy Roman Empire?"

"Yes." He answers before looking around. "Do you live near here?"

"Yes." I answer, watching as his eyes trail up and down my body.

"Are your parents nearby?"

"They are. My father is near." I lie, feeling anxious again.

"He sent you all alone in this storm?"

"I'm not alone."

"It looks like it." I nervously swallow before taking a step back.

"I'm sure my parents will be fine with you taking shelter for the night. I need to get back to them now."

"You should stay here. That storm is no place for a child." He says, taking a step toward me.

"I'll be fine."

"You should really wait it out. Don't worry, it won't be long. I have some food with me if you're hungry."

"My father is probably curious about me. I really need to leave." I say, trying to control the nerves in my voice. He begins taking slow steps toward me and I start walking back. I'm so focused on the space between us that I didn't realize he was making an arch shape, causing me to make one as well. I find myself blocked from the door to the shed.

"He'll understand." The man says while closing the door a bit, leaving it only slightly ajar. My heart begins to beat on my ribcage as I grip the handle to my knife again.

"He's going to come looking for me soon." My voice cracks and he chuckles.

"You're lying to me, aren't you? There are no parents waiting for you."

"What do you want? I already said you can stay here for the night."

He starts walking toward me again and I back myself up into the wall.

"I know exactly who you are, Russia." My eyes widen and I pull out my knife.

"Who are you?"

"I am Mongolia, or Subutai if you prefer. What is your human name?"

". . . Ivan."

"What a handsome name. . ." He says softly, still approaching me. My hand begins to shake as he comes much too close to me. I try stabbing him with the knife but he knocks my wrist, causing it to fly out of my hand.

"W-why are you here? What do you want from me?" I stutter out, voice cracking as I panic.

"I've been watching you lately, seeing how small you are. How weak you are. If you join me I could protect you, offer you wealth and comfort like you've never known." He says in a soft voice, reaching forward to drag the back of his hand down my cheek.

"I don't need your help, nor your comfort. I value my independence more than a comfortable life."

"Come now, don't be foolish. You can't even fight me off, let alone speak to me like a man. You're already trembling in my wake, squeaking as you speak - I could take these worries away from you."

"I'm not afraid of you." I lie. He smiles and comes a little closer.

"Lair." He whispers to me before beginning to pat me down. I yelp at his touch and squirm. He finds my other knife and tosses it across the room before returning to my legs. He runs his hands over my thighs, lingering on the inside of them, before feeling up my hips. I'm petrified, frozen in place as his hands feel around my stomach and chest, my arms and back. He loosens my scarf and I try swatting his hands away to no avail.

"This must be it, huh? Right there." He says while gently tracing his fingers down the side of my neck. I gasp and push myself further into the wall. I can't believe this is happening, I don't know what to do. His other hand trails down my body but stops just before he can reach in between my legs. He looks over to the door of the shed, a suspicious look on his face. I look over as well but see nothing.

His hands fall away from me and he steps back. I sigh out in relief.

"So you weren't here alone after all. . . I'll be back for you, Ivan. I'll make you mine." He rushes over to his horse and leads it out of the shed before mounting and riding off. I remain standing against the wall, trying to make sense of everything. I feel gross. Like my body isn't mine anymore. My stomach turns and I slide down the wall, curling up into myself. I wish I never came out here to get wood. I could have waited a little longer.

The door to the shed opens and I hold myself tighter, whimpering at the prospect of Mongolia's return.

"Ivan? Are you alright?" Comes a smooth, comforting voice. I look up and see the Byzantine Empire rush over to me. "I was worried, what are you doing sitting here? I thought something bad had happened to you." He pulls me into a hug and I wrap my arms around him.

"He was here. . . He was going to do awful things to me but disappeared. . . I'm frightened." I manage between tears.

"I'm so sorry, I should have gone with you. I should have been here."

He lets me cry into his chest while he softly rubs my back. After some time I calm down and wipe my eyes.

"I don't mean to cry."

"It's okay. Crying is nothing to be ashamed of. . . We should go back to the house, I'll make you something warm to eat."

He helps me get back onto my feet and walks me back to my house. I start to feel better as he cares for me, making sure I am warm, fed, and clean.

He holds me tight in his arms long after the sun has gone down. This is where I feel safest. I know that with his arms around me, nothing can ever dream of hurting me.

"Theo?"

"Hm?" He answers, his emerald gaze falling to me.

"He told me that he was going to come back. . . I'm not strong enough to fight him. If he takes me-"

"Don't speak like that." He interrupts. "I will never let him kill you, I don't care if my empire wants me to stay out of it."

"What if he takes me away? I wouldn't be able to see you."

He kisses my cheek, then my forehead.

"Our souls are bound. We will always make our way back to one another." He whispers. I smile and place a soft kiss on his neck. His hand comes to my cheek as he places his lips on mine. I want this so badly. I want to be with him for the rest of my life, for the rest of time. I don't know what the future will hold for us, so every time we kiss it's like the last time. Cause it could be.

My eyes open and my head pounds. I hate dreaming about my past. Especially when it involves Theodorus. I can feel my eyes begin to water, tears fall down my cheeks as I take in a shaky breath.

'We will always make our way back to one another' rings through my mind as I remember watching him die. His nationhood taken away, that sword plunged through his body, his gentle eyes as he told me he loved me one last time.

It's hard to remember what he looked like. I know he had green eyes, but I'm unsure of his hair color. Could have been brown, could have been black. He was taller, stronger, older than me but would he be all those things now? I remember his black cloak. He had curly hair, I remember that, it fell to his shoulders. I've long forgotten the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch, the happiness he created within me.

I take another shaky breath, trying to calm myself down. He's been dead for five hundred and thirty-eight years. . . I shouldn't feel this strongly still. . .

'Our souls are bound'

'We will always make our way back to one another'

November 8th, 1991

"Fuck me." I groan as the phone starts ringing, worsening my headache. No one calls me. No one not important calls me, I should say. With all the strength I can muster, I pull myself up off the kitchen floor using the counter and reach over toward the wall that has the phone on it. I take it off the receiver.

"Hallo?"

"Oh god, you sound like shit." Comes an irritating American voice.

"And your voice is as melodious as a screeching preteen. What do you want?" I answer, regretting my effort to pick up the phone.

"Ugh," I bet he rolled his eyes here, "anyway, I've had some major schedule rearrangements and it just so happens I'll be in Europe much earlier than I thought. If you'd like, we can meet sooner."

I sigh and resist the urge to groan.

"Didn't I give you this number for like, emergencies only?"

"Yeah, but I've been getting radio silence from your administration recently. . . This is the next best thing."

"Alright, we can meet earlier if you'd like." At this point, I really don't care.

"Perfect, how does later today sound?"

"Later today? You're in Europe now?"

"Well I just got finished with a meeting with Lithuania and I may or may not be calling you from a phone booth."

I try not to laugh at the absurdity.

"Aww, did you memorize my number?" I ask in a fake flattered tone.

"You're not that special, I have a photographic memory. . . So are you available to meet tonight or not?"

". . . Uh, sure I could move some stuff around." I lie. I have absolutely nothing going on today.

"Perfect. I'll see you then."

The call ends and I hang the phone back up. Looks like I got some cleaning to do. . . Yay. . .

Same day, five hours later

I tense and gasp as a loud knock sounds on my door. The glass I was holding breaks under the pressure of my grip, cutting me and falling to the floor in a million pieces. Fuck. Ow. Shit.

I grab the towel hanging from the oven and wrap my hand in it before I go and answer the door.

"You could, and this is just a suggestion, not knock on my door like the fucking police." I say to the North American nation standing on my porch.

"Oh, sorry, thought they were rather amicable and kind, like your reports suggest." He answers. I step aside and allow him to enter the house. Quickly, he notices my towel hand. "What's with the towel?"

"I. . . Cut myself." I admit, not able to think of a believable lie.

"Let me see." He offers, stepping toward me. I take a step back and give him a warning look.

"Why?"

"Because wrapping a towel around it isn't going to make it go away. Come on, stop being childish."

"Says you." I say while letting him take my hand and un-wrap the towel. He ignores my comment and examines my hand.

"Oh, that doesn't look good. Do you have a pair of tweezers?"

"A what?" I ask, not understanding the English word.

"Tweezers." He says in Russian.

"Oh," I'm not embarrassed at all, "Ukraine probably has a pair in her room. I'll look."

I leave him in the kitchen while I go upstairs and rummage through her vanity. I find a pair and go back to America. He sighs while taking them, then grabs my hand.

"Did you try picking up the broken glass?" He asks while pulling the small shards out of my hand.

"No, it broke in my hand. . . I was startled." I admit. He looks up at me, eyes as dark as the ocean with a forest green center.

"Sorry, I wanted to make sure you'd hear me if you happened to be asleep or passed out somewhere."

"I'm not that irresponsible, I knew what time you were coming."

He holds eye contact for a few silent seconds before looking back down at my hand. I don't wince, sigh, or groan while he pulls the glass out, rather I stand in silence, wondering why he jumped so readily at the chance to help me.

I guess, after this whole wall business and the impending collapse of an empire, we are trying to build better relations. Be 'amicable', be 'trustworthy', be 'sincere'. . . be 'friends'. . . That last one was shot down by both of us when his administration suggested it. I wonder if that guy got fired.

"How are you doing?" He breaks the silence.

"It actually doesn't hurt as much as it looks." I answer.

"That's not what I meant," he looks back up at me with that serious expression again, "how are you doing."

"I'm fine."

"I don't think I believe you."

"How the hell do you think I'm doing?" I ask a bit irritatedly. Does he want me to stand here and admit to him that I'm weak, depressed, lonely, falling apart, and that most of my time is spent drinking my weight in alcohol? Which, by the way, is noticeably less since I've lost thirty-eight kilograms (84 lbs) in less than six months! He can see how I am doing. Why must he gloat?

He lifts the sleeve of my shirt a bit to expose my wrist, fingers lightly tracing the protruding bone.

"I'd guess that you've stopped eating." He says softly, pressing his thumb into the middle of my wrist. I'm positive he can feel my heartbeat soaring.

This tension between us is unbearable, I don't know if I want to push him away or pull him closer. I'm a bit ashamed of the latter action. Another way to die without dignity.

I've resisted this particular forbidden temptation for decades, but my iron grip on self-control (and many other things) is slipping. I can feel his hunger, that insatiable capitalist appetite of his that needs more and more to feed the machine. I fought it and lost. Now, it wants to consume me too, pull me into his network of corporations, influences, and money.

"I eat plenty." I answer, resisting the urge to shiver at his feather light touches to the underside of my wrist and forearm. "I don't need your pity."

"Bein' worried about your well-being has nothin' to do with pity," his touch reaches my elbow at this point and I fail to stop my body from shivering, "it has to do with compassion."

He's dropped into a drawl now, losing formalities.

His touch reaches my bicep, my breath is already heavy.

I have to put an end to this. He's gone too far.

"Alfred, this is a dangerous path you're taking." I warn.

"Have you known me to ever shy away from danger, Ivan?"

"One day you'll regret it."

"That's not this day." His hand has reached my chest, slowly moving up to my collar bone. I close my eyes. I know I have some strength left, even if it's the last of it, I know it's in me somewhere. I have to use it now. I refuse to go down like this.

He needs to know that even at collapse I am a formidable force.

I need to know that even at collapse I am a formidable force.

I grab his wrist before his hand reaches my throat, tightening my grip hard enough to bruise. Before he can even utter another word I push him back against one of the walls in the kitchen, wrists pinned on either side of him.

"You really want to go down this road, little one?" I say darkly.

"I'm not little, let me go." He says while trying to break free. He almost frees himself from my grip and I slam him back on the wall in a bid to daze him. I decide to lace my fingers in his hair and pull his head back, forcing him to look up at me. He gasps and gives me a shocked look, uselessly trying to push me away.

"You're little compared to me, pig, never forget that. I may look weak, but that doesn't mean I am. You've celebrated too early."

"I didn't come here to win something. A-Are my genuine intentions that hard to believe?" He asks, voice airy and high.

"We have been at each other's throats for the entire twentieth century, how do you expect me to trust you?"

Silence.

"Hm?" I ask, pulling his hair.

"I-I don't know," he practically moans, "please stop pulling my hair."

A loophole. Perhaps I don't have to die with my dignity completely erased from me. I am not surrendering to him and I am not giving myself up to his hunger. This is my choice.

For the first time in our entire lives, our lips come together.

He meets me with just as much enthusiasm, parting his lips and arching his body into mine. I'm surprised at how warm he is, how hot and comforting his lips are. My hold on him falters and his wrists leave my grip. It's almost like I've forgotten in this moment that I'm supposed to hate this man. I break the kiss.

"Shit." I say under my breath.

"I've been wanting to do that since 1942." He admits.

"You do a great job of hiding that."

"We are supposed to be enemies, are we not?" He asks, reaching for my belt and unbuckling it.

"People who hate each other don't do this." I say while undoing his belt.

"I don't hate you at this moment."

"I'm sure I could say the same."

He looks up at me and something weird moves through my chest. His eyes make me think of hopeful and beautiful things; sea blue like the new shores of Petersburg, or even the salty air of Constantinople. A hint of deep green at the center like the old forests of Novgorod, or the pines at the Baltic. As our lips meet again all I can think about is his warmth, all the life he has, the good fortune, the things I tried to give myself in the early 1900s.

I know my bedroom is less than satisfactory at the moment, no light, empty bottles scattered about, the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke woven through the air, so the guest room on this floor will do.

The bed is made already as it is not used, Katyusha must have dusted it before she left, and the blinds are open. It's a very nice room at the moment, memories of locking Lithuania in here for days on end aside.

We fall onto the bed together and I straddle his hips. As we undress each other I can't help but notice how well he's built; strong chest, defined abs, arms that could probably man handle the hell out of me. It makes me feel a bit like I've let myself go, though, it's not like I chose to become so weak and thin.

He flips our positions and pins my wrists on the pillow. I hate to admit it but I can't lie to myself - this turns me on immensely. I bite my lip, trying to get in control of my breathing. I don't want to stop on account of my poor stamina and failing cardiovascular health.

He leans down and begins placing soft kisses on my neck. I moan against my will, arching into him and pushing my wrists against his grip. My body begins to shiver as that hot mouth tortures me, kissing, nipping, sucking. Ooh, if he bruises me. . .

I can't take this anymore, it's too much but not enough, I can't catch my breath. He leans up and looks down at me with a shit-eating grin.

"You're so sensitive." He comments while softly tracing his fingertips down my neck and chest. I shudder at that touch, trying my best to calm down.

"I can't help that." I manage in a voice I wish wasn't so soft before switching our positions. I decide to do the same thing he did to me, trailing my lips down his neck and biting softly. I can feel his heartbeat soar at my actions, especially when I start moving down his chest and stomach. I've had enough of this build up, I need him.

I give him a pillow to place under his hips before I lean over and open the bottom drawer to the nightstand. I take out a small bottle and notice that it is empty with only a small note tucked inside of it.

'You wouldn't have to use this with me. Love, Natasha.'

I sigh and place the bottle back in the drawer.

Historical Notes: Within the first day Russia talks about the different ways one could make alcohol, or a substance that would destroy you if you wanted, if they did not have access to proper drinks. The section is inspired by a book called Moscow at the End of the Line by Venedikt Erofeev. A very good book, I highly recommend it if you are interested in Russian history and culture. It was also an underground book when it was first published, illegal, so idk it makes you feel a little dangerous? I'm just kidding, but please do read the book. Okay, enough from me.